


It's a Horrible Life

by The_Cool_Aunt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - It's a Wonderful Life Fusion, Angel Wings, Boredom, Christmas, Fantasy, Humor, It's a Wonderful Life, John is a Very Good Doctor, Mysterious Sherlock, Other, Snark, no clue how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8843785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: “Joining me?” the doctor had asked facetiously and could only sigh in acquiescence at the affirmative nod. “Actually, you’re joining me,” the stranger had the temerity to state in a rich baritone.
John comes to his senses courtesy of Jimmy Stewart.





	

_Oh, her teacher gave her a flower, and she was so excited she kept it in her coat and didn’t button up on the way home and now she’s got a cold._ His wife’s words rang in his ears as he headed upstairs to his daughter’s bedroom, but as he reached the landing, the lanky, posh git who had been hounding him for the past few hours materialised in front of him, leaning lazily against the frame of the closed door.  
  
“Would you just leave me alone?” he spluttered in exasperation. He had had enough of him—whoever or _whatever_ he was.  
  
*  
  
He had first seen him in the waiting area of the surgery, sitting upright in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and staring intently at the other people seated there. He was murmuring under his breath, clearly making the objects of his scrutiny uncomfortable.  
  
At the end of his shift John had headed out gratefully; it had been a dull day of ear infections and sprained wrists and allergies. Dimly he noticed that the tall, pale man—he was rather striking in appearance, especially in that show-off coat—was no longer there. He shrugged as he slipped on his coat—what did it matter? Why had he even noticed him to begin with?  
  
He wasn’t actually as surprised as he thought he should be when the dark-haired man stepped out of the shadows of an alley and, with two long strides, caught up with him. “Joining me?” the doctor had asked facetiously and could only sigh in acquiescence at the affirmative nod.  
  
“Actually, you’re joining me,” the stranger had the temerity to state in a rich baritone.  
  
From then it was somewhat of a blur. The stranger certainly had a full agenda for the doctor. He dragged him to some pub to observe his sister dead drunk and passed out, her head in a pool of beer on the bar. They slipped into the back of a lecture hall, where his friend Mike was attempting (and failing) to interest a large group of dozing or doodling med students in the causes of the most common rashes. He had rolled his eyes as John headed toward the closest Tube station. “They do have these marvellous things called cabs,” he had pointed out, and the doctor had replied through gritted teeth, “And I have something called a budget.”  
  
He strolled along behind him while he was doing the shopping, snickering at the fresh fruits and veggies in his trolley, then rather infuriatingly adding packets of crisps and biscuits that John didn’t have the energy to remove. He groaned at the sight of the doctor’s dry cleaning— “And what exactly is wrong with my clothes?” John had demanded, evoking a pitying look.  
  
John had been on the verge of phoning the police when, with a flick of an upturned coat collar, the dark-haired stranger had disappeared.  
  
No. He couldn’t have disappeared. That was impossible. He was over-tired; that was it. He had dragged himself, burdened with the shopping and dry cleaning, home—to be greeted with his wife Mary’s announcement that their daughter was ill.  
  
And now he faced the dark-haired stranger again, blocking his entry to his daughter’s bedroom.  
  
*  
  
“I have to check on my daughter.”  
  
“It’s just something that’s going around. She’ll be fine, John. I promise.”  
  
“But Mary said—”  
  
The deep voice echoed in the small hallway. “John, really? You’re a doctor. You know you can’t catch a cold simply by getting a chill, and certainly not that quickly. Clearly your daughter was already ill and hot with a fever; that’s why she left her coat unbuttoned. And your wife—who’s sleeping with Bert the constable, by the way—”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Sure. They met at the Yard’s Christmas party last year. Before that it was that cab driver. Anyway, she was too busy arranging her next tryst to notice the child was ill before she sent her off to school this morning.”  
  
“What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” John spoke through clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice low.  
  
The slender man shrugged, brushing imaginary lint off his perfectly tailored jacket.  
  
“Who are you?” the doctor demanded.  
  
“What do you think?” he demanded in return, somewhat impishly.  
  
John responded hesitantly, “I’d say a hallucination...”  
  
“But?”  
  
“... but hallucinations don’t get into arguments with other passengers on the Tube.”  
  
“Excellent observation,” he nodded approvingly. “Technically, I’m a sort of an angel.”  
  
John snorted. “You, an angel?” He tried to move past him, reaching his hand out for the knob of his daughter’s bedroom door.  
  
“I’m supposed to be showing you what a wonderful life you’ve had.”  
  
“Well, you’ve done a crap job of that so far,” the doctor pointed out dryly.  
  
“Dull.” He coolly took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket.  
  
“I thought you were an angel.” John glared at the taller man. “No smoking in the house.” The stranger rolled his eyes and lit up, inhaling deeply. John shook his head. “Well, you look about the kind of angel I'd get. Sort of a fallen angel, aren't you? What happened to your wings?”  
  
“I may walk on the side of the angels, John, but don’t for one second think that I am one of them.”  
  
“So what are you, then?”  
  
“I’m a _consulting_ angel. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”  
  
“What the hell does that mean?”  
  
“It means that when people are on the wrong path, which is _always_ , they consult me.”  
  
“So why are you bothering _me_?” the shorter man demanded, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. “I didn’t consult you.”  
  
“John, take a look around you. Is this the life you really want? I mean, the boring job, the cheating wife, the house in the suburbs; dull evenings playing bridge with the neighbours?”  
  
“It’s not that bad,” he stammered.  
  
“Oh, please,” he shot back vehemently. “You can’t face being cooped up for the rest of your life in that shabby little surgery... I'm sorry, John, but this business of football games and children’s birthday parties and spending all your life trying to figure out if you want to plant roses or marigolds along the front walk... You’ll go mad. You could do so much more. You could do something big; something _important_ …” His rant slowed and then halted as he looked carefully at the doctor’s face.  
  
“I…” he whispered.  
  
“Go on.” He took a drag and flicked ashes that dematerialized before they reached the floor as John’s eyes opened wide in horror.  
  
“Oh, God,” he stammered.  
  
A wicked smile curled up one corner of the elegant man’s mouth. “You’re almost there,” he murmured, almost to himself.  
  
“Bloody hell… I know what I'm going to do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that...” His voice was weak with defeat.  
  
“Sounds a bit dull,” the consulting angel commented unnecessarily.  
  
“Fine! I get it! So what am I supposed to do about it?”  
  
“You’re a doctor.”  
  
“You know I am.”  
  
“Any good?”  
  
“ _Very_ good,” John snarled, insulted.  
  
“Have any problems with a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Could handle a bit of trouble too, I bet.”  
  
“Of course, yes.”  
  
“Wanna see some?”  
  
“Oh _God_ , yes.”  
  
“Let’s go, then.” And he broke out into a grin, stubbing his cigarette out in thin air as the doctor barrelled back down the stairs and out the front door, barely slowing down to grab his jacket. The long, thick, dark coat and blue scarf materialised on the taller man as they walked rapidly down the road together, side by side.  
  
John glanced up at his companion. “What exactly are we doing?” he huffed out.  
  
“Well, John, you've really had a _horrible_ life. You’ve already seen what a mistake it would be to stay around here.”  
  
John slowed and stopped. “All right. Yes. But where can I go?”  
  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your deployment, of course,” came the impatient response. “Do keep up. Clearly you’re meant to be an army doctor. So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
John Watson looked into the other man’s eyes for the first time, and his mouth fell open, for he wasn’t seeing pupils and irises or anything that he expected to see. Instead he could see… stars. Infinite stars. An entire universe of stars…  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is a very affectionate homage to It's a Wonderful Life, which is a wonderful film that I never tire of, and of course BBC Sherlock.


End file.
